I once lived in an apartment in Colorado. The complex was supposed to have a no-pet policy, including cats. I don’t like cats, mostly because I am allergic to them. Otherwise, I tolerate them. That is, until they start pooping right outside my door and stinking the place up to high heaven.
One fine spring day I opened our backdoor and BAM! it hit me. The smell of a cat’s favorite defecation area was overwhelming. I was not happy and I decided that since cats were not supposed to be there anyway, I would take the cat to the pound. If the owners were forced to pay $50 to get it back, they would think twice about having it run loose in the courtyard and on my tiny little plot of flower space.
Now it so happens my father was visiting at the time. I asked him to hold a cardboard box I had found so I could put the cat, unharmed, in it and take it to the pound. If you have ever tried to put a cat in a cardboard box, you know what comes next. If not, you are smarter than I was. The cat was fine until he figured out that we were about to shut the lid. Then all hell broke loose.
Before I was done, I knew what the phrase “trying to sandpaper a bobcat’s butt in a phone booth” really meant. That cat had more moving parts than a Swiss watch. The harder I tried, the more he fought. When I finally got the stupid thing in there, I duct-taped it so well that Houdini could not have gotten out.
My dad was so patient during the whole thing. Or at least that’s what I thought until I realized that he was about to bust a gut to keep from laughing. When I set the box down, it started shaking like a broken washing machine and there came a paw out one end. I stuffed that paw back in and another came out another crevice until after a dozen or so tries I finally had that demonic feline under control. To this day, I believe he had seven paws.
We put the box in the back of my car, and my dad elected to stay there at the apartment. When I got back, looking like I had a no-rules fight with a briar patch, he said, “Get the cat delivered?”
Not once in my life had I ever even thought about telling my dad to shut up. I came close that day, though. I sat down, opened an adult beverage, and sighed. I told Dad I had learned something. If a cat ever discovered the difference between inside and outside a box, he would never opt for the former again. Dad said, “Yep” and I took a nice, long swig.
Democrats are desperately trying to put the Tea Party back in the box. Accustomed to cats in other environments, they think we will just purr and meow a little–like we used to. Thing is, we have discovered that there are quite a few of us out there and that all of us like outside a lot better than inside.
So call us terrorists if you like. Try to convince the media we aren’t legitimate news. Wail and moan about how uncaring and unsophisticated we are. Call us dumb, call us anything you like. No matter what you do, we ain’t going back in.